


Figurehead

by wvwv



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Gen, Minor Harrow the Ninth Act I Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wvwv/pseuds/wvwv
Summary: In which Ianthe tries to study, and Coronabeth tries to play pretend.
Relationships: Coronabeth Tridentarius & Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Figurehead

**Author's Note:**

> Super minor Harrow the Ninth Act I spoilers! There's nothing direct, just the characterization of Corona and Ianthe's mother based off of literally one line in Act I lol. If you're trying to avoid absolutely anything to do with Act I, turn back now!
> 
> Set pre-Gideon the Ninth. This is me trying, yet again, to understand what the hell is up with these weirdos, from Corona's perspective this time!

“You really ought to do something about that _hair_ ,” Mother said, fussing with a section of Ianthe’s long pale hair.

Ianthe, hunched over a table in the library, ignored her, focused on reading the kind of dusty old tome that always put Coronabeth to sleep before she even got through the first page. Coronabeth had to put in appearances in the library—usually, she went together with Ianthe—but she never bothered to do much reading, and Babs generally neglected to accompany them in favour of training, so it was dreadfully boring. Right up until someone else came in to check on them. Then, it was dreadfully uncomfortable.

“I mean it, Ianthe, it’s so stringy. And what about your posture? It’s _awful_. You’re in the Third House Main Library—anyone could walk in and see you like this! And what would they think of the House that one of its heirs looks like this? Look at Coronabeth!” Here, she gestured to where Coronabeth was sprawled across the plush velvet armchair next to Ianthe’s, braiding her curls for want of something more interesting to do.

“Of course, Mummy,” Ianthe said, sickly sweet, finally looking up from her book and straightening her spine, “Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be sure to ask Corona for tips on hair and posture.”

“Oh, sweetie, don’t you think that you’re a little old to be so dependent on your sister for basic things like this?”

And this was Coronabeth’s cue to melt into her armchair in shame.

Was their mother trying to put on a show for potential eavesdroppers, to throw them off the scent of Coronabeth? Was she just trying to humiliate Ianthe knowing that she couldn't truly defend herself without ruining the image of the Third House? Was she trying to make a joke? 

Regardless, Coronabeth couldn’t let it stand.

“Mother!” Coronabeth called, in what she hoped desperately was a jovial, winsome tone. “I think Ianthe’s hair looks _lovely_. It’s so smooth and sleek. Besides! If we both had the same hair, it’d be too difficult to tell us apart, wouldn’t it?”

“No need to worry, Coronabeth,” Mother said, coming over to cup her hands over Coronabeth’s cheeks. “There isn’t _anyone_ that would mistake her for you even if you had the same hair.”

“Of course not,” Ianthe agreed easily, eyes narrowed, lips quirked in a tiny smirk. “And once she opens her mouth, it’ll be even clearer that we’re not the same. Every sentence she says is a fascinating case study on the extremes of human intelligence.”

“Oh, watch it. I’m not in the mood for your provocation,” Coronabeth chided half-heartedly, before their mother could go after Ianthe again. In truth, Coronabeth was grateful for every jab Ianthe made at her; she took them as some measure of penance. She could never repay Ianthe for taking all the fire from their parents and Babs and the Third House at large, while Coronabeth was praised despite contributing nothing but a flashy image. Coronabeth’s meagre defenses of Ianthe against their House could never make up for the fact that it was Coronabeth’s fault that she needed defending in the first place.

“Oh, ‘provocation,’ that’s a new word for you, isn’t it?” Ianthe said, turning in her chair to face Coronabeth properly. “Well done—”

“Ianthe!” Mother snapped.

“It’s alright, Mother, she’s just joking,” Coronabeth said, jumping up and grabbing their mother’s arm to distract her. “I think we’ve just been studying for too long. Come on, Ianthe, we should go have a nice relaxing bath—I just bought some more of those lavender-scented bath salts—and then I can braid your hair for you.”

“You shouldn’t defend her like that, Coronabeth, you’ll just encourage her,” Mother said, but she let Coronabeth pull Ianthe to her feet and steer her out of the library.

“Big sister to the rescue,” Ianthe hissed at her as soon as they were out of their mother’s earshot. “You shouldn’t do that, you know. Wouldn’t want to _encourage_ me.”

“Oh, stop it,” Coronabeth said, completely fed up with the whole House at this point. “Would you rather stay in the library with Mother or come take a break with me?”

“You’re not my cavalier, you don’t need to defend me,” Ianthe said, but she kept walking at Coronabeth’s side, smoothing her face back into her customary mask of detached boredom.

Coronabeth sighed. Ianthe didn’t get it. Coronabeth wasn’t Ianthe’s cavalier, but she did need to defend her. Coronabeth owed her.

It had seemed like such a good idea to them at the time Their parents wanted a matching pair of necromantic heirs—a necromantic pair, if you will—and the two of them wanted to spend time with each other, instead of having Coronabeth off learning to swordfight while Ianthe studied.

Now, they seemed like complete fools. Coronabeth was useless and fraudulent; Ianthe, mocked and overlooked. They were together, but they weren’t a real pair. And they had to deal with Babs hanging around them whenever he wasn’t working out, or practicing swordplay, or huffing hairspray.

Coronabeth wanted nothing more than to be Ianthe’s cavalier—and she’d be _good_ at it, too. While she spent hours and hours pretending to read with Ianthe in the library, she’d often let her mind wander to what their life would be like if they’d chosen different paths so that they could end up by each other’s sides for real. She’d imagine that she was Ianthe’s cavalier, picking the best strategic location to monitor the room for threats and be able to defend Ianthe if needed. She’d look out the library window onto the training yard, watching Babs practice, and pretend that she was in his place, and that Ianthe would watch her in between books. She’d think about training with Babs in secret—knowledge she kept even from Ianthe—and tried to relive the exhilaration, feeling the phantom weight of a rapier, the memory of her burning muscles.

Using her body had always come more naturally to her than using her mind. Even if she had been a real necromancer, she was certain Ianthe would still be better than her. Ianthe teased apart information from even the vaguest, most useless bits of old text, and she could weave it back into her own knowledge base seamlessly. Anything she saw or read or heard, she consumed and made her own. But, like all necromancers Coronabeth had ever met, she was physically weak and tired easily. She would need to rely on the protection of a cavalier if someone ever tried to harm her.

Coronabeth was useless to her like this. Worse than useless, she refocused attention away from Ianthe’s brilliance. Ianthe said that being out of the spotlight was convenient for her, but Coronabeth could see everybody’s snide comments eat away at her until she was snappish and bitter. As Ianthe’s cavalier, she could devote her life to Ianthe’s protection, and she could stand next to her sister with pride. As a fake necromancer, she could only try to minimize the harm she caused, knowing that she could never make up for what she couldn’t give Ianthe.


End file.
